A Good Place to Forget

It's a good place to forget, but that is impossible without rewriting a narrative that simply doesn’t work anymore. And I don’t know what to do about that. All I know is, May he finally be at peace.  I don’t know what to do with the questions. “A3zizti, I pray for you to find someone—you deserve the best, inshaAllah.” And I smile at those sentiments hand to heart with gratitude, Llay baraak fiki, and save your meltdown for the house. But the worst—and no one since, not even one?  It’s a knee-jerk reaction—the modest girl's recitation, “Wallahi, of course not.” And it’s mostly honest. I tried another, three times as hard without a shred of the depth or a shard of the light. Lessons learned, save that compassion and empathy for one that's deserving--most of all your own heart. 

He hated ultimatums like he loved sandalwood and Triple 5. Sometimes we still speak when I'm asleep.  Woke up other morning to sparrows in the courtyard and his ghost outside the door. My homegirl tells me, “you’re still alive. You’re young, you have a thousand lifetimes. You still feel—it’s a precious thing so thank God for it; you’re still human and wallah it didn’t break you.” I wonder if she’s right, right now. But I've long ago fallen in love with solitude. I've fallen in love with generic desire reserved for my body soul alone.  If that door ever were to open again, it would take a truly incredible spirit. I learned how to see humanity, I learned to give up reactionary disrespect for the entire masculine half a world over what was once done to me. That's a necessary lesson, dropping the man-killer impulse, but it sure as hell isn't a fun one. 

And the real bitch about recognition of another's humanity--and borne of it, unconditional love, robbing you of the cleansing rage that burns you clean again, starts you from scratch.